


A Girl is Arya Stark

by Flawless2408



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya Stark-centric, F/M, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon Snow actually does something, Not Canon Compliant, Nymeria actually does something, POV Alternating, POV Arya Stark, POV Gendry Waters, POV Jon Snow, The Long Night, Warg Arya Stark, and some earlier seasons episodes, at least not for season 7 & 8, kinda my season 7 & 8 rewrite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:28:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24323557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flawless2408/pseuds/Flawless2408
Summary: A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell. And I’m going home.Arya has spent too long with the faceless men, she is wary, closed off, and isolated from the girl she used to be. She has so many faces now that she barely remembers who Arya Stark is supposed to be, what it feels like to be alive and whole again, and not the frozen girl she has become. She will do anything to protect the last remains of her family, but what will they think of what she has become?An army of the dead marches for Winterfell and she feels just as cold as them.---Basically this idea that it took Arya longer to escape the faceless men and she spent that extra year or so training with them, that by the time Arya reaches Winterfell the army of the dead is already marching towards them (hence Peter Baelish is still alive). Kinda my season 8 rewrite, I don't change everything but I try to give it more justice then the show did. I do change some details from earlier seasons but thats all revelled in flashbacks/dreams and whatnot.Rated mature because of swearing and violence and sexy times :)
Relationships: Arya Stark & Bran Stark, Arya Stark & Gendry Waters, Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Davos Seaworth & Gendry Waters, Davos Seaworth & Jon Snow, Grey Worm & Missandei & Daenerys Targaryen, Grey Worm/Missandei, Jaime Lannister & Brienne of Tarth, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Jon Snow & Gendry Waters, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Missandei & Arya Stark, Missandei & Daenerys Targaryen, Nymeria & Arya Stark, Petyr Baelish & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane & Arya Stark, Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Sansa Stark & Brienne of Tarth, Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark, Tormund Giantsbane/Brienne of Tarth, Tyrion Lannister & Sansa Stark
Comments: 79
Kudos: 313





	1. Chapter One - Arya

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own any of the Game of Thrones Characters (God I wish, I'd be rich or something), just trying to make an entailing story for you all with them.
> 
> This has a mature rating because I am possibly gonna get to some smut in later chapters, just a full disclosure.
> 
> Please do not repost to another site. I don't have a Beta Reader so I apologise if theres any spelling or grammatical errors, but I may have missed somethings whist editing it. This is my first post on this site (though not my first time writing a fanfic), so enjoy and let me know what you think.
> 
> Thats all for now :)

**Arya**

_A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell. And I’m going home._

The words echo in Arya’s mind the whole journey back to Westeros, playing on a loop as the sea breeze hits her face causing her eyes to water. With each step, she takes across the wooden deck of the ship bound for a port-side town it hits her exactly what she did. She defied The Faceless Men. Killed one of them. The thought follows her across the narrow sea, taunting her. She wonders if Jaqen will send another Faceless Man after her to finish the job. The God of Death was promised a name after all.

It takes most of the silver from the coin pouch she stole in Braavos to bribe her way onto the ship and to convince its captain to dock at the random port town she has chosen, before stopping at Kings Landing. Not that she thinks she would be recognised if they docked in the capital, but she has no desire to prove her theory wrong and die. Not Today. The captain has been nice enough and supplies her with a cabin, she didn't expect that much from the older man, he has a rough nature, and is not the kindest to the crew, perhaps it is because Arya has a pair of tits.

Arya spends her time at sea befriending the crew, they only know her as Mercy. With the weeks at sea she thinks it best to get to know them, their motives. It is safer to know who you are traveling with, that way it is easier to see the blade coming. She never lets her guard slip though. They ask her questions during their travels but she always evades easily, replying with questions of her own. The crew doesn't suspect a thing, when they finally dock at the port after weeks at sea she leaves, and they seem genuinely sad to see her go.

Idea’s swirl in her mind as she sits in the inn at the pitiful port town. It's dirty here, she doubts her mug is clean and the floors are covered in ale causing her boots to stick to the ground, yet her mind is elsewhere. Where will she go? Who will she be? For she had claimed back the name of Arya Stark of Winterfell but she doesn't truly know who that is anymore. Who is Arya Stark? The Arya Stark of her youth had been reckless, never willing to back down from a fight even if it would surely get her killed and overflowing with emotions, brimming with anger and fury. And while now she is sure the anger and fury are still there somewhere, it is buried underneath the cold, emotionless body that she has become whilst playing the game of faces and she doesn’t know how to get that back.

So while she drinks her warm ale in the corner of the inn, disappearing into the shadow’s, invisible, and keeping an eye on every exit. She decides to start where she left off, crossing names off her list. She has no idea if she has any family left to protect, she's sure the Bolten's have killed them all, so little news of Westeros reaches Braavos. But she still has the names,

_Ilyn Payne, The Mountain, Walder Frey, The Red Woman, Cersei_

Her list has shrunk over the years but she still has names to cross off. People to die. And this small, rundown port town is rather close to the twins. But first, she'll need a horse.

***

“When people ask you what happened here, tell them the North remembers. Tell them winter came for House Frey.” The poor serving girl looks horrified but she nods along none the less to Arya’s request.

Blood splatters underneath her boots, soaking into the leather as she exits the hall. She doesn't feel anything, as cold as the stone over her head, as cold as the bodies of house Frey will soon be. All she can think about is the last time she was here. Her brother's eyes staring into hers, the horror dawning when he realised that she was in the room. Her mother's throat being slit, how red her blood was. The screams of the poor girl who had helped her as they road away.

Despite getting her revenge she still feels empty. Perhaps when her list is finished she'll feel something again, perhaps then she won't be so cold, so unsatisfied.

_Ilyn Payne, The Mountain, The Red Woman, Cersei_

She has no idea of the whereabouts of Ilyn Payne, nor the Red Woman. But Cersei she knows she can find in Kings Landing and most likely The Mountain will be at her side. She just has to make her way to the King's Road and then South to Kings Landing. There is a forest at the edge of the Neck, close to the Twins and will provide with cover for the night, she’ll take the King's Road in the morning.

Bedding down in a forest has never bothered her, yet she stays closer to where the trees are thin, she has no desire to fight a lizard lion from the swamps tonight. No desire to loose her newly acquired horse to the beasts. She will not walk to Kings Landing.

She's a beautiful thing, her new horse. Cost nearly all the silver she had leftover from the coin purse she stole save for a few, but worth it. The horse is calm and not too old so she won't die if Arya rides her too hard. Arya makes sure she's properly tied up before settling on the floor, forgoing a fire, it's not too cold and it will most likely only draw unwanted attention. Yet sleep still evades her.

It has been a while since she has needed to recite her list aloud in order to sleep, yet she does it anyway, in the hopes it'll help settle her. “Ilyn Payne, The Mountain, The Red Woman, Cersei” Her voice sounds strange to her, she rarely uses it these days, perhaps after all this is over after her list is finished she'll get used to it, maybe she will even get to laugh again.

***

She's running through the forest on all fours, her pack behind her. The dirt and snow are soft. The air is fresh and crisp. The wind-cold. North. This is North. She has been leading her pack in this direction for some time, the further she went the more anxious those behind her grew, few had left, her pack behind her still a hundred strong, yet none as large as her. She has met no other dire wolves in her travels only her smaller, weaker cousins who submitted to her rather easily.

Her wolf's body is lean, and tall, and strong. She jumps over a fallen log with ease and dodges trees on instinct. She's fast like the girl was, her human. It is that scent she follows now. Or rather the scent of her kin, someone who knew her at least. She knows her girl is still alive. Can still feel her in the back of her mind, like now, that bond is not broken even after years. So she hunts in her pack till she finds her, or she is found. Waiting to return home.

She lets out a howl and stops, her pack close behind her, and makes way for a nearby stream. They have been running since dawn and it's well into the night, they deserve water and sleep. The stream is barely that, most of it is frozen over, but she bows down to drink from the still flowing water at its edge. When she draws back she sees her face reflected in the water. Yellow eyes staring back at her.

***

Arya wakes with a gasp. Her breathing heavy and heart beating rapidly. The air is cold as she forces it down her lungs, gripping the dirt beneath her to ground herself and bring her back to reality. The forest around her is quite. The only sounds are of the rustling trees in the wind and small nocturnal creatures scattering along. It is not yet dawn, the world around her still bathed in darkness but darkness hasn't scared her for a long time. Not since she was blind.

It has been a while since she has had a wolf dream. She misses Nymeria like she misses the rest of her family, but at least her wolf is alive and searching for her. She's glad that the bond between them has yet to break, when she sent Nymeria away she was sure the wolf would always hate her. Yet after all these years she still clings to Arya, much like Arya clings to her and that bond buried in her mind. If she concentrates Arya can feel her there in the back of her mind, waiting.

The dreams started the week before the late King's visit to Winterfell, though she never told anyone. Old Nan used to tell her stories of Skin changes and Wargs, she never managed to figure out how to let her family know, she was already an outsider as a child, she didn't need another reason to be. She briefly mentioned to Jon that she had been having strange dreams but never got the chance to elaborate. Now she wishes she had told them all, at least she wishes she had the chance to.

The dreams had not stopped when she crossed The Narrow Sea despite her distance from Nymeria. They taunted her, reminding her of the past and why she could never truly become No One. But they also comforted her.

When she was blind for a year she managed to warg into other animals, a cat, a few birds but the sight was temporary and she knew not to rely on it. Eventually she learnt to fight back on her own, to fight in darkness as well as she did in light. Turns out that's exactly what she needed to defeat the Waif.

Realising that she is not likely to fall back asleep after her dream and that dawn is approaching she gathers her things, climbs on her horse, and makes towards the King's Road, avoiding the swamplands of The Neck as she does.

***

She makes it to the Crossroads inn by midday, she could have been here sooner had she not made the decision to go further North in favour of shelter the night before but she is in no real hurry. Cersei and The Mountain will still be in Kings Landing a week from now. And her horse makes the journey a lot easier then it would be on foot.

Being here brings back bittersweet memories for her. Days when she was just a child, her family still alive, her father still alive, of traveling with a smiths apprentice. It was here where Arya sent Nymeria away, where Lady was killed, where Mycah was killed, where she said goodbye to Hot-Pie.

It is exactly how Arya remembers it, she briefly wonders if Hot-Pie is still working here and if his bread-making skills have gotten any better. She ties her horse up outside before making her way indoors. It's still dim and dirty inside, wood being used to make everything, tables, chairs, walls.

A few men stare at her as she makes her way inside. She's not entirely sure why, she's positive that none of them recognise her. The Lannister soldiers on the road had looked at her the same way, with appraising eyes. It makes her feel uneasy. She has never had this sort of attention before. Though she knows she has grown and changed a lot since she was a girl mistaken for a boy.

She was never allowed a mirror in The House of Black and White, Jaqen would say that she couldn't be No One if she saw what Arya Stark looked like each day and she hasn't looked in one since leaving Westeros, perhaps since leaving Kings Landing. Yet she knows she is taller now, if only slightly. That her body curves like a women's should, small waist, larger hips. That her breasts had grown in and grown reasonably large, large enough for men to look when she would play as Mercy or Cat of the canals, and large enough to require breast bindings. She knows logically that by now her face would have lost the roundness of childhood, but she cannot picture it. Her hair has grown and is now almost as long as it had been before Yoren cut it all those years ago, it surprised her that it grew back so quickly especially without the Nobel treatment it used to receive. Yet still she can't imagine herself to be the beauty her mother and father claimed she would grow to be.

She settles at an empty table waiting for someone to bring her some food and ale, listening to the two men behind her talking about The Dragon Queen, most of it is information she has already heard, the people of Braavos loved gossiping about The Dragon Queen.

“Arry?” The name that only a handful of people knew, most of who are now dead, causes Arya to break from her thoughts and look up to find Hot-Pie holding a tray of food in front of him. He looks the same as he did a few years ago when they parted. Still fat, still curly-haired but he seems happier.

“Hello Hot-Pie.” Is the reply she gives, she makes sure to keep her face closed off acting as though she was expecting to find him here, her voice is devoid of emotion. “Sit down,” she tells him, before gesturing to the food on the tray as he sets it in front of them, “who's that for?” Before he can reply she's taking a pie off the tray, stabbing it with a knife and savagely biting into it, forgoing any highborn table manners she learnt as a child in favour of eating as quickly as she can. She hasn't eaten in days, the last food she saw was made out of the Frey sons, and that was not appealing to her. “Mmm this is good,” she praises him as she bites into it.

“Really? Do you think so? The trick is in browning the butter before making the dough, takes more time you see, so most people don't bother.”

“I didn't do that,” She muses, again thinking of the pie she had served Walder Frey with his sons inside.

“You've been making pies?” Hot-Pie asks disbelievingly.

“A few,” she goes back to eating, swiping at her face with her hands and licking meat off her fingers.

“I can't believe you're here. Did you meet the big lady?” At Arya’s blank stare he elaborates, “the lady knight, figured she was a knight because she had armour on you see.” Arya almost smiles at the remark from their childhood. Hot-Pie continues, “she was looking for your sister but I told her about you.”

“She found me.” Arya gives no more information than that, continuing to eat her pie, Hot-Pie looks disappointed.

“What happened to you Arry?”

At the question Arya does look up, she pauses her eating, looking at his face, seeing his desperation, but she can't tell him, “You got any ale?” She asks instead. He hands her a mug and she downs it all before going back to her pie.

Hot-Pie continues with his questions, “Where are you headed?”

“Kings Landing.”

“Why?”

“Heard Cersie is the Queen now.”

He tells her about how he heard Queen Cersie blew up The Great Sept, but she's only half listening as she eats, the Lannister soldiers already told her this much. “Can't believe someone would do that.”

“Cersie would do that.” Is her confident reply,

“Thought you'd be headed for Winterfell.”

“Why would I go there? The Bolton's have Winterfell.”

“No they don't.”

“What?”

“The Bolton's are dead. Jon snow came down from Castle Black with a wildling army and won the Battle of the Bastards.” Hot-Pie says it like it is supposed to mean something to Arya. “He's King of the North now.”

“You're lying.” Arya’s quick to deflect but she knows he's not, years of training don't lie.

“Why would I do that?” He asks, “He's your brother right?”

Arya feels like her world has been turned on its head, she was so sure that the Bolton's had killed the last of her family. That Jon, if he wasn't dead, was bound to the Night's Watch. But her brother, her favourite sibling is alive and King in the North. Jon. She looks away from Hot-Pie and down to her pouch of silver coins. “Thanks for the pie,” she says as she goes to pull the coins out.

“Friends don't pay.” He says back to her confidently, as though she hasn't changed into something he can barely recognise, as though they are just old friends who happened to see each other again, as though their lives weren't turned upside down now, as if they were still children. It almost makes her want to cry, but her grip on her emotions is too strong for that. “Can't believe I ever thought you were a boy, you're pretty.”

“Thanks,” is all she can say, slightly stunned at the compliment. She gathers her coins and stands but before she walks away she places a hand on his shoulder. “Take care of yourself Hot-Pie, try not to get killed.”

“I won't,” he tells her, “I'm like you Arry. I'm a survivor.”

She gives him a small smile before leaving the inn. Outside she unties her horse and climbs into the saddle. She watches as a wagon of people set off South to Kings Landing. She turns her head over her shoulder to look North, to her home, to Jon, King in the North. Then she looks forward to the South and Kings Landing and killing Cersie before she makes her decision and turns her horse around to head North, to Winterfell.

A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell. And I’m going home.


	2. Chapter Two - Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon returns to Winterfell with an army, though minus a title.

** Jon  **

It has cost him his title, but Jon considered it well worth it. Returning to Winterfell with Daenerys' army, her dragons, the promise of the Lannister forces, and all the Dragon Glass they could mine from Dragonstone.

The lack of a title doesn't bother him, he never liked having leadership thrust upon him, the choices were difficult as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. He often found himself passing moral boundaries he otherwise wouldn't have crossed. Put simply, he didn't like who he became when put in positions of power, he doesn't know how to lead without a war. He is a leader in battle but has never been any good at the political side. It almost came as a relief when Daenerys demanded he bend the knee, she can rule the realm, make the decisions, he'll just support her along the way.

The added men, materials for weapons, and dragons would be a huge turn around for the war, the difference between winning and losing the battle with the dead. Jon has a feeling that wouldn't be what Sansa focused on, the first thing on her mind would be that he bent the knee, handed over the North's independence. Already he knows Sansa is not pleased, the last raven he received from her was short, and he could sense her displeasure. Although her raven had contained some good news, Bran has returned home.

When Jon had heard that his long lost brother was alive, he didn't care what the war had cost him so far, didn't care about the coming war at all. Their family will be reunited, not all of them, but together he, Sansa, and Bran can watch over the North. That is more family alive then he has been hoping for, more closure then he deserves.

He knows how his father died, how his brother and Lady Catelyn and even his brother's pregnant wife had gone, he had seen Rickon die in front of him. Sansa and Bran are still breathing, still alive despite the odds. Yet the one person he longs to know of, the most important person, is still the only one shrouded in mystery.

Arya he hasn't seen since she was ten and two, and he barely a man, when this whole mess began. Her departing for Kings Landing and him for The Wall. He holds no hope that she is still alive, she was so small, and the world isn't kind to girls like her. He only wishes that he knows what happened to her, where her body is now.

All the stories he heard were conflicting. Some say Arya died in Kings Landing, that the guardsmen were too eager and killed her on sight, or that she was too outspoken while captured and Cersie had her killed for it. Others say she escaped only to disappear entirely or to die on the King's Road. Some believe she was reunited with their brother at the twins, to then die in the Red Wedding, body burnt with the guardsmen. Fewer still tell that she escaped the Red Wedding or was never at the twins at all, but captured by The Hound and killed on the road, Sandor has neither confirmed nor denied the claim. Few tell that she escaped The Hound, only to die alone and defenceless.

Regardless all the stories told that she was dead. And regardless, Jon still has no idea where Arya died, nor how. He doesn't know if she died quickly, or painfully, if she suffered, if...seven hells...if she was raped on the road and disposed of. Jon hopes for her sake and for his sanity that she went quickly. He hopes that she wasn't just left to rot in the forest somewhere. That someone found her and was kind enough to bury her, hopes she wasn't left to the wolves of their sigil. He longs for her remains to be returned to them, so that she can be buried properly, in the crypts as their Aunt Lyanna was, as a Stark.

"Jon, are you alright?" Daenerys asks softly. Dany's riding on his left, leaning towards him on her horse, in an attempt to see the entirety of his face. Her hair is tied back in its usual long white braids. She is dressed in long woollen breaches and an elegant, thick, white coat to protect from the cold, yet she is still shifting uncomfortably in her saddle. Not accustomed to the cold or the snow.

"I'm well, your grace. Just thinking of home." He replies to her, shaking away the depressing thoughts of his little sister. He'll dwell on those later when he hasn't got a job to do. He draws his own thick wolfs pelt closer around his body, more for something to do than because of the cold, he is well accustomed to it by now.

Dany nods but fixes him with a look that lets him know she doesn't believe him, before holding her head higher and turning forward as their entourage takes the first steps into Winter town.

A portion of the Unsullied march first. Then Dany and he on horseback. They are followed by Dany's advisors and a mix of a few others who have joined the cause. If Jon listens carefully, he can hear Sandor Clegane cursing out the cold over the noise of the marching army. Tyrion Lannister and Lord Varys ride in a carriage just behind them, with the remained of the Unsullied and the Dothraki charge bringing up the rear.

Winter town is just as he remembers it. Admittedly he hasn't been gone as long this time; it's only been about a year at the most, so he shouldn't have expected much change in the town itself. It seems colder. Perhaps it is the oncoming endless winter brought by the White Walkers and the Night King, the North seems colder then what it once was, almost as cold as it had been beyond The Wall.

Jon can already see the people of Winter town halting what they were doing to move to the side of the road and watch the procession. The Northerns watch the Unsullied pass with distrust. Outsiders haven't been welcomed by the North since his fathers execution, perhaps as far back as King Roberts visit, their resolve only strengthened by The Red Wedding and the Boltons capture of Winterfell.

Jon can sense Daenerys' discomfort, many of the small folk openly glaring at her. "I told you, the Northerners don't like outsiders," he says quietly so that no one would overhear him, "to them, you are here to take the North away from them. They can't help but distrust you. The war has been hard on them all."

"I'm not used to feeling like the usurper. They are looking at me as though I'm here to burn their houses and rape their women." Is her equally quiet reply, her chin dips slightly.

"They don't trust you yet, give them time, when…if we win this war, with the help of your army and your dragons, they'll change their minds, don't judge them too harshly just yet."

Daenerys looks at him with worry as though she is struggling to believe him. The look fades when her dragons fly overhead. Dipping dangerously low to the town, blocking out the sun for a few moments as they pass. Many of the townsfolk recoil, the younger children scream or run for their mothers, while the children a little older stop to stare at the sky in wonder. Dany doesn't even flinch, smiling up at her children, holding her head high once again, her confidence restored.

The Unsullied army part as they approach Winterfell, pulling away from the main gates, only a handful of guards will accompany them into the courtyard. The rest will set up camp for the upcoming war.

Winterfell itself has changed. Much of the castle has been rebuilt from when the Bolton's put it to the torch. Under Sansa's watch, the castle has almost returned to its former state, before the Bolton's fire. Jon shouldn't be surprised Sansa was raised to be a Lady, Winterfell had flourished under her care.

The realisation that he will again be reunited with his sibling's sets in as Jon passes the main gates. Sansa stands tall, head held high, in a long dress in Stark grey and a long black coat tied together by a chain, furs over her shoulders. Her long red hair is styled the Northern way. Lord Peter Baelish stands to her left, yet just behind her, always close. Jon takes a moment to glare at Littlefinger, the voice constantly in Sansa's ear. He'll have to do something about that now that he's home. Jon had warned him not to talk to her, go near her. Perhaps Littlefinger needs a reminder. To Sansa's right is Bran.

Jon's little brother sits in a chair with wheels. It saddens Jon to see his brother crippled, yet he is here, with family, and that's what matters. He has grown, looks older, a lot older than he truly is, and wiser somehow. His hair and face are longer, having lost the roundness of childhood. Bran has furs draped over his shoulders, his hands folded in his lap, a ghost of a smile on his lips, yet his eyes are far away.

Jon dismounts quickly, barely waiting for his horse to come to a stop, forgoing helping the Queen to rush to his siblings. He knows Dany will understand. He crosses the courtyard in a manner of seconds and leans down to embrace Bran tightly. Bran merely lifts a single arm to Jon's back before dropping it again. Nevertheless, Jon is smiling widely, kissing his brother's forehead. He leaves his left hand on one of Bran's shoulders as he turns to Sansa. She embraces him far more fiercely than Bran, despite her disappointment with him. They stand there, holding one another for a moment before pulling apart. When they do, Jon notices the unshed tears in his sister's eyes and smiles at her fondly.

Remembering himself, he turns to Daenerys, and she walks forward, having noticed the family moment is over. She comes to stand beside him, and he gestures to Sansa "Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, my sister Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Lady Stark," Daenerys says to her, always polite, yet Jon can tell this is more. Dany desperately wants to get to know Sansa, to know his family. Perhaps because she never felt like she had one, she told him once of her brother, perhaps she was hoping Jon's family could accept her. Dany is smiling fondly, no doubt recalling something Jon had told her of his childhood. "Your brother has told me so much of Winterfell's beauty, and of yours, I'm so glad to see it's true."

Sansa's face is cold, different from how she was looking at Jon only moments ago. Sansa returns the smile, though it seems insincere not reaching her eyes, she looks Dany up and down, assessing her. "Winterfell is yours, your grace." Is her cool reply.

Jon sees how Dany's face drops for a moment before her smile is forced back in place. She is still polite, but Jon can tell she's disappointed. "Well, shall we get started, we have much to discuss for the upcoming war."

As they head inside, Dany shoots Jon a worried glance. Jon is wary of the distaste Sansa holds for Dany, he doesn't want tension between two girls he cares for, doesn't want to be caught in the middle. His personal feelings aside, he needs Dany and her army, he'll need to talk to Sansa, explain that the dead are more of a priority than the North's independence.

Perhaps his sister will be more of a problem than Jon had initially thought.

***

The Northern Lords and Ladies are angry. The Northern Lords had named him King in the North, and then he had turned around and knelt to The Dragon Queen. Daenerys does her best to reassure them, although surprisingly it's Sansa's words that end up quelling their rage and stop them from leaving. They clearly hold a lot of respect for her, and this is quite obviously something she has done before, perhaps when word first reached her that he had bent the knee.

Once they had calmed down and accepted the fact that, at least for the moment, the North is no longer independent, they moved on. To the dragon glass and how quickly they can forge weapons from it. Jon appoints Gendry as the head smith of the Winterfell forge immediately, Jon knows the boy can fight, and he knows he can run. Yet Gendry had assured him their whole trip beyond The Wall that he was a far better smith, Ser Davos had convinced Jon it was true and now Jon hopes he wasn't lying. The boy leaves the council as soon as he is appointed to get the forge running.

From there, they move onto battle plans, yet the discussion is a lot harder than Jon thought it would be, no one can agree on a plan of attack. They are gathered in the main hall, the Northern Lords who along with Lady Mormont journeyed to Winterfell for Jon's return, Tormund Giantsbane has come down from The Wall to report on the status of the dead, due to return in three days time, Daenerys advisors also join them. Jon sits at the high table along with his siblings, Daenerys and Tyrion. Sansa to his right, Daenerys to his left. Lord Baelish, unfortunately, stands by the wall with Brienne of Tarth. As close to Sansa as he can be, as though some kind of personal bodyguard, as though he has actual use.

"We have dragons now for the Gods sake, why not use them? Winterfell should not be where we make our stand, it should be our point of retreat. We should make our stand at The Wall." Sansa says confidently, several Northern men nodding along.

"I have dragons." Daenerys corrects sternly, "I'm not about to send them out to their deaths. Dragons can't do everything. Winterfell strategically makes more sense, we start an assault outside the gates and retreat to the castle if necessary." Jon can tell Dany is thinking of Viserion's death. The loss of one of her children has made her see how truly vulnerable they can be. He knows Dany will be more careful with her two remaining children in the coming war.

"I agree with the Lady Stark." Tormund grunts, "The Wall is more defendable, we have the high ground, it's stood for thousands of years. We're more likely to win with that."

"And if we don't?" Tyrion asks, "A retreat only works if you can make it to the place you are retreating to, there are thousands of miles of land between The Wall and Winterfell."

"Tyrion's right. It took us three weeks travel the first time I made the journey to Castle Black. And that was with hard riding each day. With a whole army, the provisions we would need to survive the trip back, it could take much longer, months even. Even if we didn't journey to Castle Black, made for one of the closer outposts, it is still too long a journey, and the other outposts aren't as well supplied." Jon agrees, receiving a stern look of disapproval from Sansa for his efforts.

"We don't have time for this," Brans says, yet he sounds far away, "we don't have time to journey to The Wall."

"What do you mean?" Sansa asks. They all turn towards Bran.

"Oh my God!" Daenerys exclaims, her hand going to clutch her chest in shock.

Bran's eyes are rolled back in his head, Jon goes to rise "What the hell! What's happening to him?"

"He's fine," Sansa dismisses, although she does look worried, "he is just seeing something."

"Seeing something?" Dany asks, having regained her composure enough to lower her hand.

"He sees things now." Is Sansa's nonchalant reply, waving her hand in dismissal, watching Bran intently.

"He sees things?" Jon asks. He's confused, worried for his brother, he rounds Sansa, kneeling beside Bran, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"He's a warg!" Tormund says with a hint of awe, "a Skin Changer, he's seeing through an animals eyes,"

"I went beyond The Wall," Bran states simply, as though it's nothing noteworthy, blinking as his eyes return to normal. "I became the Three-Eyed Raven, I now see everything that has happened in the past and see possibilities of the future. I can Warg into animals and see as they do." All those in the room, aside from Sansa, stare at him in shock. Undoubtedly the Northern Lords and Lady had noticed Brans change in character, but they seemed just as shocked as Jon at this news.

Bran looks over Jon's shoulder to Daenerys, "the Night King has your dragon. He's one of them now." Bran tells her in that new all-knowing way of his, "The Wall has fallen, the dead march south."

"W…What?" Daenerys stammers, Jon stands to turn to look at her, there are unshed tears in her eyes, and she looks like she's desperately trying to hold them back in front of the others. 

"So The Night King now has a dragon," Sansa says bitterly as Jon retakes his seat, sharing a worried glance with Dany. "So much for that advantage." She shoots a look at Dany, Jon's beginning, to feel uncomfortable being the buffer between the two women. The Northern banner-men shout their agreement. "We must call all our banners to retreat to Winterfell, with The Wall gone there's nothing to stop the dead."

"So much for The Wall being more defendable," Tormund mutters to himself. He then speaks to the group, oblivious to the tension in the room, "the Night's Watch should be called back too, no use for them out there anymore, guess it saves me the trouble of returning though."

Tyrion is also apparently feeling the tension, as he stands and rounds the table. "We have an army unlike ever before, the Northern banners, the Dothraki, the Unsullied, the greatest army the world has ever seen. Two full-grown dragons to the Night Kings one who undoubtedly was always the smallest. And soon…the Lannister army will join us-"Shouts of outrage from the Northerns cut him off. "Now, I know our houses have never gotten along before." Tyrion shouts over them, "we have not been friends in the past, but this threat is greater. We need to work together now, or we will die."

That quietens the Lords, yet Sansa speaks into the silence, "And how, may I ask, do we feed this great army?" She asks bitterly, "I ensured we would have enough stores to last through winter, I accounted for the North, even for those in the North that may flee to Winterfell. I did not, however, account for Dothraki, Unsullied, and two fully grown dragons, let alone the Lannister forces." She huffs indignantly before asking sharply, "What do dragons even eat anyway?"

There's a beat of silence before Daenerys answers, "whatever they want." Jon looks between the two women as subtly as he can, the tension in the room is so thick it would need a sword to be cut. "Do not fret Lady Stark, my dragons will find their own food."

***

When the meeting is over, only he and Daenerys remain in the hall. He rises as he looks to her, she's staring blankly at the table in front of her. "Are you alright?" He asks her softly.

"Your sister doesn't like me very much." She says, not lifting her gaze to him.

"Aye. Sansa's like the rest of the North, she doesn't trust you yet, she wants the North's independence. She's been through worse than most. She doesn't like the idea of being shackled to anyone."

"I'm not trying to shackle her, I'm trying to help. The iron throne is my birthright, but I didn't need to bring my army here for you, it is in my best interests, but I could have easily refused."

"I know that, and she does to on some level. Just give her time, she'll trust you more when she sees your not here to screw her over."

"I hope so."

"But really Dany, are you alright? What Bran said about Viseri-"

"I don't want to talk about it." She snaps, her head turning to him sharply, he holds up his hands in surrender, she sighs, looking back to the table in front of her. "Sorry…sorry, I just…I know other people think it strange, but they're my children like I've told you before…they are the only children I'll ever have…if they are gone…well …they're all I have." He puts a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it gently, feeling guilty for his part in Viserion's death and guilty for not knowing how to console her.

"Go, Jon." She tells him, still staring at nothing, "I know you have much to do, leave me with my thoughts for now."

"You sure?" He asks she nods, "I'll find you later." He promises.

As he walks out the hall, he can just barely hear her mumbling sombrely, "When the sun rises in the West and sets in the East, when the sea goes dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves, when your womb quickens and you bear a living child…." Before trailing off.

***

Jon makes his way outside to the Winterfell forge. Producing as many dragon glass weapons as possible is the top priority. Daenerys has brought her army to the table now Jon needs to ensure they and the Northern men are armed.

The forge is dim, but the fires are lit, and over fifty men are inside working the dragon glass. It's stuffy, but the Northern air is freezing, so few have shed any layers aside from those closest to the forge fires. Jon has never seen the forge so busy, so full. The forge at Winterfell was built to accommodate for battle, it is large with several fires and work stations and even storage rooms built off the side. But Jon has never before been here during a war to see it function at full capacity.

Jon finds Gendry at the back of the forge. He's near the fires, down to his tunic in the heat of it, and hammering away at what looks like a dragon glass axe head. "Gendry," Jon calls, and the younger man jumps slightly at the interruption.

"Your Gra-uh M'lord." He stumbles.

"We went North of The Wall together Gendry, I consider you a friend its just Jon."

"Right uh...Jon." He says uncomfortably, picking up the axe with a pair of metal tongs and plunging them into a bucket of water to cool before laying it back on the work station and turning to Jon. "What can I do for you?"

"Just came to see how the forge is doing, looks like you have been busy. I only put you in charge a few hours ago, I'm impressed."

"Thank you, M'lo-uh Jon." Gendry scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, "aye, well I just put the men to work straight away, we're making everything from arrowheads to blades. I've got a few guys trying to make those Dothraki curved blades, the Arakh I think they call them? But the dragon glass doesn't hold well in that type of mould. Everything else we're just using the regular moulds for doesn't make much of a difference, but for those, we needed to make new ones."

"Aye, keep trying. I'll talk to Daenerys see if the Dothraki will consider a normal blade. What have you been working on?"

"A bit of everything really," Gendry replies, moving back to the forge to start work on something new, putting the axe in a pile of similar ones to the side. "Made some spearheads earlier, then some short blades, now some axe heads. The Hound came and saw me, wants me to make him his own weapon, but I want to make sure we're producing enough of the regular stuff first, his might take a bit more work."

"Aye do what you need to." Jon looks around, he has got what he came for, seen the work himself. Yet a question still nags at the back of his mind, something he'd wanted to ask when they went beyond The Wall.

"Was there anything else, Jon?" Gendry asks him, clearly eager to get back to work, and feeling awkward with the silence.

"Actually there was something I wanted to ask you," Jon says, Gendry raises an eyebrow. "Why did you choose to come with us? North of The Wall I mean. Here even?"

"I told you, I couldn't just stand by and wait, I had to do something." He dismisses.

"But you didn't have to. You could have marched with Her Graces forces, mined the dragon glass, started work in the forge like the other smiths. Why follow me? Our fathers knew each other sure, but why me? Why not Daenerys?" Jon asks it bothered him for a while, not knowing what he had done to earn Gendry's trust and loyalty.

Gendry sighs, setting down his hammer and leaning his hands on the workbench, head hanging. Jon waits patiently for his answer. After a few moments, Gendry lifts his head and turns around, leaning back against the work station and meeting Jon's eye. He looks…sad, guilty almost.

"I knew your sister." He says quietly, so quietly that Jon almost doesn't hear him.

"Sansa? How do you know her? She never mentio-"

"No. Not Sansa." He interrupts, looking broken and desperate. "I knew Arya."

"Arya?" Jon repeats in a whisper, before rushing out, "You knew Arya? How? When?"

"We left Kings Landing together. Boys heading for the Night's Watch. Yoren, the man who came and got us all, cut off all her hair, told her to pretend to be a boy, he was going to take her to Winterfell. He got killed before we made it, and…look its a long story and I don't really know all of it, we were separated when I was sold to The Red Women, and Arya died soon after that."

"So she survived Kings Landing. I…I never knew. There were so many stories. So many ways that she died." Jon knows he sounds broken, but so does Gendry. How was it that Jon managed to meet perhaps one of the only people that could tell him what happened to his sister? The only one from who he might learn the truth. "How did she die?" Jon asks, he just has to know how she died.

"She died at the Twins," Gendry tells him confidently.

"You're certain? Brienne saw a girl with The Hound after the Red Wedding, thought it might have been Arya."

"It wasn't her," Gendry sighs, "She was heading to the Twins, she was so close even if The Hound took, even if she got lost. She had weeks. She should have arrived days before the wedding. There is no way that she wouldn't have made it, and there is no way she survived that. The brotherhood told me they tried to find her. A few of them went to the twins, arrived a few days before the wedding. They were told Arya had been reunited with her brother and mother."

"Seven hells, I had hoped she hadn't died so...such an awful way. I think Sansa hopes she's still alive, I know she feels bad for everything that happened when they were children, wants to make up for it." Jon smiles sadly. "They used to fight all the time."

"I know." Replies Gendry, smiling sadly "Arya said she used to hate her, still hated her, but I could tell that really she missed her."

Jon looks at Gendry, _really_ looks at him, he finds himself feeling curious but also protective over his little sister's memory. "How well exactly did you know my sister?"

"We were kind of like family…for a while anyway." Gendry looks almost..guilty? "A lot of stuff happened after Yoren was killed. We had each other's backs."

Jon nods that makes sense, Arya was only a girl of ten and two back then, when she met Gendry. She would've stuck by someone that could help her, someone reliable like her older brothers and father, someone that made her feel safe, she was only a child, why wouldn't she? And Arya had an uncanny ability to make a friend out of almost anyone.

"I followed you because I felt I owed it to her, to her family. And…she thought you were good and honourable, like her father, that was good enough for me. You were her favourite, and when I first met you, I understood why. I started following you because of your sister, but beyond The Wall, you were loyal and brave, and a good leader, and that's the kind of man I want to follow. Even if it means going beyond The Wall and freezing my balls off another hundred times."

"Thank you, Gendry, for your loyalty and…for letting me know what happened to my sister after Kings Landing." He clears his throat, feeling awkward once more.

"I don't want to get you hopes up Jon," Gendry says in that pained way he seems to adopt only when speaking of Arya, perhaps he has lost a sister as much as Jon has, "She's gone."

"I know. I know. Sansa might still hope, or wish. But I know she's been dead for a long time."

***

The news comes in the morning. Spread from serving girls, mistreated wives, and daughters. "The North remembers, winter came for House Frey."

The men of House Frey poisoned at a feast after a toast. A massacre. Not a single man left alive. Though the woman and children went untouched. The North rejoiced at the news, Rob Stark, The King in the North, was avenged, along with his wife and unborn child, his mother Lady Catelyn Stark, and all his banner-men. And most importantly to Jon Arya too.

Then the rumours begin to spread. The assassin made no effort to hide from witnesses. She was female. (Poison was a women's weapon as Tyrion had put it, although Tormund had disagreed, saying that any wildling women could cut the imp in half with an axe). The serving girl she had spoken to is traumatised, perhaps forever scarred, but described the girl to be of the North. Long dark hair. Grey eyes. A ghost from the North she had said. The common folk spread that news like wildfire. A Northern Lady, risen from the grave to seek justice. She is vengeful, cold, and deadly.

She is the ghost of Lyanna Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, thank you for kudos' and for the comments  
> So glad that people seem to be enjoying it.  
> This chapter is a bit longer, I've never written from Jon's perspective before so it was a little challenging, I think I'm definitely better at writing Arya.  
> Let me know what you think, I love the feedback  
> Thanks :)


	3. Chapter Three - Arya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya continues her journey to Winterfell yet she encounters some trouble on the road

**Arya**

They think she is the ghost of Lyanna Stark. The ghost of her long-dead Aunt.

Arya has spent many nights riding North, sleeping in the woods, sometimes sleeping atop her horse. She did try to avoid the King's road at first, before realising, it was useless and that anyone she met would likely not recognise her anyway. 

The few people she has encountered were common folk, many were farmers, fleeing South away from the army of the dead. That was a shock, although she had heard rumours of the dead in Braavos. Yet she had assumed it was just a story, something to scare off the children and to read in front of a fire at night, like the ones Old Nan told of the White Walker. When she found out that there actually was an army of the others heading this way, she was astounded. The first person Arya had asked about it looked at her as if she was thick. 

But soon, the conversations of the small folk changed, to the deaths of House Frey. That's when she heard what they were calling her, the ghost of Lyanna Stark. She is partly relieved that no one recognised her as Arya, but also somewhat pissed that people are comparing her to the likes of her dead Aunt. Who was wild in life, yes, but no trained assassin. It is actually somewhat ironic that the people would jump for a ghost story of a long-dead Stark rather than to a missing one.

She has always known that she bears a resemblance to her dead Aunt. Her father always assured her that she would grow up to be as beautiful as Aunt Lyanna had been and that she was as wild as his sister was, a true Northerner. She had noticed the late King had often looked at her with sad eyes. When she questioned her father about it, he had only told her that Robert could also see her resemblance to Lyanna. Arya only has vague memories of what her Aunt Lyanna's statue in the Winterfell crypts looks like. She remembers that the figure is beautiful, her Aunt was stunning. Still, Arya cannot see any resemblance beyond the wild nature.

She is now only a day or two from Winterfell if she rides fast and throughout the night. But her horse is tiring, and she knows that she should probably stop to rest. The more she pushes her horse, the less likely she will make it to Winterfell with the beast. If she travels at a walk or trot and stops for rest come sundown, she should make it in three or so days with her horse intact, saving her the trouble of journeying on foot.

Dismounting Arya can feel someone's eyes on her, as uncomfortable as a pair of icy hands on her neck. She looks around at her surroundings, no eyes staring back at her through the trees, no cracks of footsteps against twigs and dirt, no signs of anyone at all. Yet she can feel them, she knows to trust her instincts. 

She ties her horse to a nearby tree, to let the poor thing rest, they have been riding too hard these past few days. She kneels, gathering some twigs and preparing a small fire, it gets colder the further North she goes. Despite not wanting to attract too much attention with the light, a fire has become a necessity, especially with the new snow falling each night. When it's lit, she sits to warm her hands by it, pretending not to notice the presence of her stalker. 

She can still feel their presence creeping around the clearing, only stopping when they're right behind her. She tries to act normally. She unsheathes Needle from her side to lay it next to her. She retrieves the long Braavos hunting knife from its hiding spot, tucked under her waistband against the scars on her stomach from the Waif. Her stalker must be a faceless man to be so quiet. 

A twig snaps right behind her. As quick as a cat, she spins around, Needle raised in her hand. Still, her attacker is prepared, he parries the blow with his dagger and with an intricate twirl of his hand Needle flies, landing ten feet away from her. 

Arya undeterred, slashes with her hunting knife catching the man in the chest, cutting open his plain tunic and tearing the tan skin beneath. He lunges forward, catching her in the arm with his blade and slicing her arm open before she pulls away. It is not too deep to be life-threatening, but she hisses at the pain. He darts forward again as she retreats, aiming for her belly. Before she can avoid it, the dagger slashes at her jerkin tearing in open and cutting deep, yet not deep enough to gut her as she dances back, crying out with pain. Her free hand going to the wound as it burns white-hot, blood dripping through her fingers and falling.

Arya knows she's losing, the last faceless man she beat was the Waif, and Arya had the added bonus there of darkness. She lunges forward, slicing into the man's shoulder, deep enough that he almost drops the dagger in pain. Arya darts back again, avoiding his blow, angling her knife upwards to aim for his throat. She takes another step back as he moves forward but trips backward on the uneven ground. She curses herself silently for not paying enough attention to her surroundings, a fools mistake.

He steps forward, blade in hand for a killing blow, but Arya strikes out with her knife, catching him in the wrist. Her hunting knife is thicker and sharper than Needle. Allowing her to put enough force behind the blow that it severs flesh, tendons, and the delicate bones of his wrist. The hand and the knife held in it go flying across the clearing, falling individually five or so feet away.

The man curses, his other hand going to the wound. The stump sprays blood onto Arya's face and clothes, it won't stop flowing and stains the snow beneath them, bouncing off the ground due to the contrast in temperature. Arya uses the distraction to get to her feet as the man screams in pain.

Arya angles her knife once more to slit his throat as the man falls to his knees, his screaming never stops, even as his remaining hand inches toward the other knives strapped to his belt.

The sound of an arrow being released startles Arya enough to look up. She doesn't have the time to move out of the way before it is embedded deep in the front of her left shoulder. She cries out as the arrow buries itself into her flesh, pain bursts across her shoulder, down her arm, all the way up to her neck. Short and sharp but never-ending. She stumbles but swiftly regains her balance, adrenaline running through her body.

She reaches down to the man, still fumbling for his knives while screaming. She takes one and using her good arm Arya aims it at the female assassin she spies sitting in the tree opposite her. Pushing the blackness threatening to take over to the back of her mind, she lets the knife fly. By some miracle of The Many-Faced God, it lands its mark in her would-be-assassins throat, she drops forward to the ground lifeless. 

The man before her manages to get a hold of another one of his knives. He's stopped screaming, now heaving heavily. He goes to lunge at her, again aiming for her stomach. But his weak from blood loss by now so it's easy to get another shot at him. Again she aims for his hand, morbidly curious to see if it will fly across the clearing as the last one did. She mustn't hit the right spot because it doesn't. With one slash, the sharp blade tears through the skin, blood spouting onto her, her assassin, the once white now blood-soaked ground. But her hunting knife hits the bone, the shock reverberating up the blade into her arm. 

The hand flops uselessly to the side, still connected to her assailant's arm by some tendons, nerves, and flesh. The bone is eerily white, a stark contrast to the blood slowly staining it, and the ground below her. She almost gags, but she has more control than that, even if the sight is disturbing, even if the area now reeks of blood. The knife falls to the ground, her attacker soon follows with a dull thump, screaming at his useless hands. She swiftly stabs him through the throat. Partly to save him the pain of bleeding out on the forest floor, but mostly to save her the trouble of listening to his dying groans. He chokes on his own blood for a few moments before falling silent. 

Arya tries to stagger the few feet closer to her fire and away from the body but fails. The ground below her swoops and dips as if daring her to meet it. She falls forward but manages to angle herself just slightly, slumping to the ground on her side before finally giving into the darkness. She'll deal with the arrow in her shoulder and the mess when she wakes up. If she wakes up.

***

When she wakes, it is about midday, the sun far above her head. Though she's not entirely sure how long she's been out. Hours or days? The ground beneath her is wet and sticky. The blood from her now-dead enemy has spread since she passed out. Her clothes are sticky with blood and cling rather unpleasantly to her body, she is unsure if any of the blood is her own as there are few parts of her clothing that isn't drenched in it. Remembering her injuries, she realises that at least some amount of the blood must belong to her.

She turns her head slightly to assess the damage. Her breeches once a dark brown are now stained dark red in places. Her long-sleeved undershirt sticks to her and is likely now redder than the off-white it was. Her leather jerkin is slick with the blood that sprayed on to her but shouldn't stain. Her fur pelt is matted from the blood and now beyond saving. Her jerkin and undershirt are torn from the arrow and the cuts to her stomach. The left sleeve of her undershirt is torn all the way down to her elbow. A thin slice on her arm where the cloth should be.

She pushes herself into a sitting position, her head throbbing and shoulder burning with pain. Her belly aches from both hunger and pain. Her horse is still here, the mare is digging at the snow, chewing in the grass beneath it. The blood nowhere near her, lucky bitch.

The arrow is still embedded deep in her shoulder, it's going to hurt pulling it out. She half crawls, half drags herself to her horse and pulls her supply kit from one of the saddlebags. It only contains a small needle, some thread, a waterskin, and a small flask of alcohol for disinfectant. There is a small stream not fifteen feet from the clearing, but she doesn't have the strength to make it there, so she props herself up against the tree she has tied her mare to. 

She pulls the arrow out as fast as she possibly can without breaking it and pulls the layers of clothing surrounding the wound back. She pours some water onto the wound to clean it and follows that by pouring the alcohol over the wound. She manages to thread the needle. The task made difficult by her shaking hands. Sansa and the other noble-born girls always made fun of her for her needlework. It was too sloppy, messy, not how a lady's embroidery should be. Ironically she has become pretty good with a needle if it's skin that she's sewing together.

The first prick and sweep of the needle through her skin always hurt the most, she grits her teeth and digs the nails of her left hand into her thigh in a futile attempt to distract herself. With each thread of the needle, her skin slowly, painfully pulls together. Arya tries not to think about it, but her pained cries and gasps fill the clearing. Once she's sown herself back together, she only has time to pour some more alcohol on the wound to fight off infection before passing out from exhaustion and pain again. Her stomach left unstitched.

***

Her bare feet echo off the stone walls as she descends the stairs. She was told by the girl to not wear shoes, that it would make her quieter. So she was dressed in only a pair of breeches, an undershirt, and a tunic. You need to be able to run, the note had said. 

Arya lied to her mother that she had felt ill that day. That she needed to rest, a serving girl barely Arya's age had begged her to that morning as she was preparing to break her fast. She had told Arya she was too young, that she wasn't supposed to be there. Arya had asked her what was going on, but the girl only knew something bad was coming, Arya had wanted to warn Robb and mother. But the girl told her it was too late, there was no escape for them, but Arya might still make it, they had no plan for her yet.

Arya was so confused. It was a wedding day, nothing bad would happen. She almost didn't listen to the girl. Almost went to breakfast. Almost told her mother anyway. But she didn't. She did tell The Hound not to drink when he came to check on her rather uncharacteristically. She had a bad feeling.

Now, as she nears the front of the tower, she can hear only hear music and feasting. She feels nauseous. Her spine prickling with unease. The serving girl had snuck a note into her chambers to meet at this time in the stables. Arya doesn't know why. She doesn't know what's going on, but she regrets not telling her mother and brother of the girl's warning.

Arya hesitates as she walks, the passageway is eerily quiet. She makes her decision. Instead of turning towards the exit, she walks down a different corridor. Towards the great hall. Towards her mother and brother. Further into The Twins. The music changes, a different song starts playing, a slower tune she doesn't recognise, it's not a Northern song. 

The door to the great hall is closed, barred from her side yet with no guards. Noises are coming through the door, she can't make sense of them, but she can hear the music stop. Her unease increases. Something bad the serving girl had said. An image of her father before the Sept of Baelor flashes in her mind. She should have told her mother and brother about the warning. Why didn't she tell them about the warning?

She approaches the door warily, not knowing whether she should go inside but knowing she can't walk away. She needs to find her family. Needs to find out what's going on. Maybe it was a Lannister ambush. But why would the door be barred on her side? Who had done that?

She removes the wooden bar from the door, struggling to lower it to the ground with her small frame. She crouches to the ground and pulls the heavy door open a crack looking through. 

All she sees is fighting and blood, the blood of the North. Her eyes dart around, not knowing where to focus as her family dies. She does nothing. Doesn't have the time. It happens all too quickly. She almost screams out her grief but holds it back, tears streaming down her face and snot running from her nose as she tries to keep the sobs at bay. 

Then Arya's running. Running away like always instead of staying to fight. Her family is dead. She did nothing to save them but watched, just like with father. Now all that she can do is run and survive. 

***

Arya wakes up, panting, tears streaming down her face, feeling nauseous. She lurches forward, her injuries screaming as she vomits, again and again till there's nothing left inside but the lining of her stomach.

She hasn't dreamed of The Red Wedding in years, not since she left for Braavos. The most common dreams she's has have been the wolf dreams, but tonight Nymeria is quiet. She had felt cold when she went back to The Twins to murder the Frey's, hadn't allowed her mind to wander to anything but her vengeance till the Frey's were dead. Maybe having been there again has brought those dreams to the forefront of her mind. 

The Hound had explained to her once that reliving traumatic experiences in your dreams was common. Back when she first started having the nightmares and woke up sweating and crying each night. He told her many soldiers got them after being in battle, that he often dreamt of fire. He never complained when her crying woke him up, he didn't console her either, but it made her feel better that he didn't judge her for being weak. 

She remembers telling him the morning after The Twins to not mention it ever again. As she watched from the safety of the trees as the Frey's paraded Robb's body around with Grey Winds head sown on and dumped her mother's naked body into the river. She had vomited till her stomach was empty then too and said to him, "We won't ever speak of this night again. We were never here. I don't give a fuck who asks you. I was never here." And him agreeing with a solemn nod. She supposed she no longer had to worry about that after leaving him to die.

Now Arya gasps deeply, sucking precious air into her lungs. Pressing herself back against the tree behind her and digging her fingers into the snow to ground herself. Those memories are partly why she tried so desperately to become No One, and also partly why she couldn't. 

Arya carefully goes about locking all her unwanted memories away where they can't interfere with who she is or what she has to do now, just as she learnt in The House of Black and White.

After ten or so minutes, she slowly lifts her head, her breathing, and heartbeat calming as she takes deep breaths, in and out, in and out. She swipes at the leftover tears on her cheeks. She reaches forward to grab her waterskin, where it lays forgotten in the snow and pours some water on her face. 

She looks down at her clothes and realises that she's still covered in blood from earlier, that the wounds on her belly are still open as she had passed out before she could close them. She looks up to see the pale light of dawn shining through the clearing before turning her head to inspect her shoulder to see if she has torn any stitches with her earlier lurching. She hasn't.

She sighs audibly and rises. She has already wasted at least two days, though perhaps more, in this clearing, and she needs to keep moving. Especially if more Faceless Men are coming after her, seven hells the army of the dead could already be at Winterfell by now.

She rises slowly and heads for the stream nearby, gathering her small supply kit as she goes. She washes the wounds on her belly before stitching them closed. She then strips and bathes, the water freezing. 

Cleaning herself and her clothes before redressing in a fresh, dry pair of breeches and a shirt she had packed in her saddlebag. She sacrifices one of her spare shirts to use as bandages for her wounds, tearing the material to shreds. She replaces her jerkin and hastily puts on her boots. She discards her own pelt now covered in blood but takes the one off the body of the female assassin. She had fallen forward out of the tree, so the pelt is mostly untouched.

She chews on some stale bread as she retrieves Needle from across the clearing and her hunting knife from her male assassin's throat, wiping the blade on his clothes. She tucks a few of her would-be-assassins blades into her sword belt. She doesn't bother to hide their bodies, they are partially covered by the snow now anyways, she'll leave them for the wolves to find. If they are wearing other's faces, they'll be useless now having frozen in the cold, so she doesn't even bother to check.

Her movements are stiff and practiced. She doesn't allow herself to think, barely allows herself to breathe, and soon she's back to the cold, unfeeling Arya Stark she has grown accustomed to. 

Only when Arya mounts her horse does she remember her fight with the Faceless Men. The first assassin, the male, had made a noise just before he attacked her. She had already known he was there, but he had snapped a twig beneath his feet. Faceless Men did not make noise, they moved silently, it was one of the first things Arya learnt. They had wanted her to know they were there.

They were far from the best assassins the Faceless Men had trained. The Waif had been far superior in her skill, and Arya had bested her, so these two were relatively easy to kill. Why would they send assassins after her who were less skilled than she? 

There were two assassins. Most missions were only even done with one, Arya knew. The Faceless men did not need backup. So why send two?

Jaqen had seemed more impressed than upset when she killed the Waif, treated it as another test of her skill. He only became angry when she declared she was leaving, that she was taking her training and their secrets with her. He clearly did not mind if the assassins died, only if their task was completed. It didn't make sense to her though, why bother sending out assassins he knew would not succeed in killing her? Why not send someone better? Why not come himself?

She looks down at Needle by her side. Once she had been told the blade would not serve to kill a man by regular means, but if she could poke enough holes in them…She stiffened on her horse, looking around cautiously.

He had sent two assassins. Two who would not succeed in killing Arya yet might succeed in wounding her. Which they did. Her shoulder was injured. There were stitches in her belly. Even her stab wounds from the Waif had not fully healed yet. They had scarred. Angry red scars that stuck out against her flesh, her abdomen still ached sometimes. Maybe he hadn't sent two assassins, maybe he sent out more.

The Waif was the best assassin she had known in The House of Black and White, next to Jaqen. Yet she had killed her. The Waif could not move in darkness as Arya could. Had never learnt. The pride with which Jaqen had looked upon her when he discovered the Waif dead…Maybe they had trained her too well. Possibly without Arya even knowing it, she had become the best of them. She had learnt things they hadn't, simply because she disobeyed. 

Perhaps they couldn't kill her outright in one fight…but they could poke holes. Like Needle could. They could poke holes until she was too weak to put up a proper fight. 

How many more would it take? How many more had Jaqen sent? And how far away were they? They hadn't killed her while she was unconscious, so they mustn't be too close, but with her out for so long, they could now be closer.

Arya's certain this won't be the last she's sees of the Faceless Men. She pulls her pelt closer around her, feeling suddenly cold. Her recent breakdown almost entirely forgotten. They won't succeed in killing her. She'll kill every last assassin if it means returning to her family. They won't kill her. Not today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, that was chapter 3. I hope you enjoyed it.  
> No Nymeria in this chapter but we will see her in chapter 4.  
> Sorry it took a bit longer to update, I rewrote this chapter a couple of times and almost switched it around and made it chapter 4 instead because I wasn't quite happy with it but I think I got there in the end.  
> Thank you for all the kudos, comments and bookmarks.  
> I'm so happy people are enjoying this.  
> Keep the comments coming, I love hearing your feedback.  
> Thank you all again :)


	4. Chapter Four - Sansa

**Sansa**

Sansa walks along the ramparts, her dress in Stark grey gliding along the floor with her movements. Her hair is tied subtly back off her face, but the rest is left free, wild, the Northern way. She holds her hands in front of her carefully as she walks, face blank, her steps are measured. Brienne guards her from not three feet behind. Sansa looks, for the most part, the perfect Lady of Winterfell.

Jon stands in the courtyard below her, talking to some of the Northern men, she has been watching him. She has struggled to find him lately, never where she expects him to be. In the past few days since Jon's arrival, Sansa has barely seen him, save for meal times and war councils. She starting to really worry.

At first, she had been disappointed, she had been so happy to have her brother back safe, yet he seemed content to ignore her. Then she worried he was angry with her by the way he would barely meet her eyes these days. She then thought maybe Jon had assumed she was mad at him. She had been hostile towards him during their first council when he returned. She was frustrated with his loyalty to a Queen he had barely met, who had stolen the North. Yet not angry with him, not really. Finally, she's just accepted that he must be busy, there was much to prepare for, he is the one at the head of this war, he would be in high demand.

She makes her way to the end of the walkway, down the small stairwell and out to greet Jon. He's finished talking, is on his way out of the courtyard when she calls out to him, "Jon."

He turns and smiles at her, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Sansa." He looks as though he'd rather be anywhere else.

She walks towards him quickly, not giving him the chance to walk away from her, she stops barely three feet away. "Could I talk to you for a moment?"

He looks away from her, reaching up and running his fingers through his hair, "Sansa I can't right now, I've got a lot to do, so much needs to be prepared. We can talk later."

He makes to turn, but she stops him again with her words, sharp this time "Later? When exactly?"

"I don't know. Soon." He turns and walks off so quickly she doesn't even have time to formulate a reply—it stings.

"Are you alright, my Lady?" Brienne asks her sympathetically. Sansa doesn't turn to her, still watching Jon's retreat.

"He's been avoiding me." Sansa tells her, "I just thought him busy with the war preparations. But he's avoiding me." She sounds hurt, pathetically so, but Sansa honestly believed that they had become closer than that. She no longer saw him as the outcast bastard brother, he was one of her only remaining family members. His rejection of her hurts.

"There is a lot to be done, my Lady. Perhaps it is not intentional." Brienne tries.

"No. He couldn't even look me in the eyes Brienne, he is keeping something from me."

Brienne remains silent. Sansa ponders everything that had just occurred. Jon had greeted her so warmly when he first arrived but has been distant since. The Dragon Queen must have told him something, must have asked him to keep it from her. First the Queen takes her home and then her family.

"I know he is keeping something from me Brienne, I just need to find out what."

***

Meals have been a less private affair since the influx of men and women at Winterfell. Many crowd to the great hall for dinner. There are few places for people to eat, and most of the food is being supplied by the Winterfell stores, so the great hall is packed full of people.

Sansa takes her seat between her two brothers at the high table. The Dragon Queen and Tyrion should join them shortly, the rest of the Queen's advisors sit at a lower table. Sansa smiles in greeting to Bran before turning to Jon.

He doesn't meet her eyes again. "Jon, I thought we might talk now. I have barely seen you since your arrival."

He sighs, "I know I've been distant, and we will talk. But there is much to prepare for the war, I've been busy. Just as you have with the Northern Lords and food supply."

Sansa huffs frustrated. "You are not dealing with any of those responsibilities right now. I thought we moved past this Jon, had grown closer. I miss my brother, there's been a lot going on here, I need someone to talk to about that.” He looks guilty now, still not meeting her eyes, but she seems to be wearing him down. "You haven't just been distant. You've been outright ignoring me. I know somethings going on. I know you are keeping something from me. What's wrong? Please just tell me." She implores him.

He sighs again, he has been doing that a lot lately. "I promise you we will talk soon and I'll explain everything. I just have a lot on my mind right now, and I have to sort through it all first."

"You're just avoiding this conversation, delaying it. That's a horrible excuse, and you know it. You're keeping something from me, and the longer you go without telling me, the worse it will be." She replies sharply, no longer worried, just angry.

"I know." He tells her as The Dragon Queen and Lord Tyrion round the table.

"Your Grace, may I switch seats with you? I'd like to talk about some strategy with Lord Tyrion."

Sansa's mouth actually falls open as The Dragon Queen agrees. Jon's acting like a child, like a boy no older than ten and two to get away from her. The Queen takes his seat. Sansa is speechless, now what is she supposed to say? The silence between them is awkward, stretching too long as Jon and Tyrion begin to speak to each other.

Sansa is about to turn and try to start up a conversation with Bran, who has been silent, staring off into the distance unseeing, but The Queen moves slightly in her seat to face Sansa.

She looks behind her at Jon before turning back around and confessing quietly so that only Sansa can hear her, "something is going on with him, he has been distant with me, his mind is elsewhere. Last night at the war council, he was barely paying attention."

The Queen seems worried, more worried then she ought to be. Sansa had thought Jon had been keeping something quiet for The Queen, but perhaps she is wrong. Sansa waits a long while, weighing the outcomes of her answer and if it will give too much away to The Dragon Queen before her desperation for answers finally wins. "He has been distant with me too. Well…less distant and more outright avoiding me," she replies equally as quietly.

The Dragon Queen sighs heavily, and there is genuine concern in her eyes as she says, "I've tried talking with him, he won't tell me anything."

Again Sansa pauses. Lord Baelish had been telling her yesterday of the rumours he had overheard. Rumours of her brother and the Queen being…involved. Sansa decides to be direct, abandoning their current topic of conversation for later, needing answers. ”Do you love my brother?" She makes sure to keep her tone soft and voice quiet so that no one would overhear their very public discussion.

The Dragon Queens eyes widen, surprised by the sudden change in their conversation. She pauses this time, as if unsure what to tell Sansa before she quietly confesses, "yes, I think I do."

Sansa decides not to comment that thinking you love someone and actually loving them are two very different things. Instead saying, "I didn't love either of my husbands, my marriages were forced upon me. I didn't like marriage as much as I thought I would when I was younger."

Again The Queen pauses "I didn't love my husband at first either, but I grew to love him." The Queen muses, her eyes look far away as if remembering something. "Though my situation is no doubt different from yours, not as cruel from what I have heard. I was sold to my husband by my brother in exchange for an army to retake his throne. The Iron Throne was never his right like it is mine, he was not a true dragon, but that's a different story. When I lost my husband and our unborn child, I thought I had lost the only family I would ever have."

Sansa ponders The Queen's story, shocked by her honesty. It is not so different from her own. The Queen has lost as much as Sansa has, perhaps more, at least Sansa has her two brothers, and Arya when she returns. A moment of understanding passes between them, shared in grief and loss. Sansa wonders if she need play games at all or if the Queen will also come to understand her wish of the North's independence should Sansa explain.

Before Sansa can reply, Bran interrupts them, "we have a guest."

Sansa almost jumps slightly in her seat. She had nearly completely forgotten he was there, and she feels somewhat guilty before realising he was probably listening to their conversation. 

Sansa turns away from the Queen. "A visitor?"

"At the gates. Tell Jon. We must go meet them before the guards do something foolish." He tells her.

Usually, Sansa would not take orders from others, but she knows by now to not question Bran's judgment. "Do you mind if I join you? I’d rather not sit he if theres a threat at your gates.” The Queen asks her.

Sansa wants to tell her to mind her own business, but they did just have their first civil conversation, and Sansa tries not to be cruel without a need, "I don't see why not."

She stands to address Jon, “Jon,” he turns to look her way, “Bran says we have someone at the gates, its important."

He looks like he wants to argue, but seeing The Queen rise from her seat intending to follow them stops him.

"I suppose I should come along too," Tyrion says, rising. "It is no fun to sit at the high table alone."

The five of them make their way out the great hall and down the hallway that leads outside. Sansa pushes Bran along with her, "Do you know who it is?" She asks him, but he gives no reply. Sometimes Sansa thinks part of her old brother must be in there somewhere if only because this Bran likes the theatrics just as much as her old brother did.

They collectively stop when the gates come into view. Four guards are blocking the way, two with their swords out the other two with their bows drawn. "What is going on?" Jon calls to them walking forward, he stops when he sees whoever it is.

Sansa abandons Bran to walk forward and see who the guards are looking at. She almost feels bad, but he already knows who's there anyway. What she sees takes her breath away, their visitor isn't a who but rather a what.

A hulking beast stands at the gates to Winterfell, growling at the guards. Ghost paces in front of it, also growling and eyeing the creature warily.

"Don't shoot." Jon orders, "you might hit Ghost. Move back."

The guards walk back as Jon pulls Longclaw from its sheath. The beast now in full view for all of them.

"Gods is that a…" The Dragon Queen starts before trailing off.

"A dire wolf." Tyrion answer taking a few cautious steps forward but still staying well away from the animal. "It's nearly as big as your pet one," he says to Jon, shocked by the sheer size of the thing, "I thought yours was the last one left Snow."

"Many creatures fled south from the dead." Jon replies, "I guess this one made its way here. It's probably looking for food."

"So, what do we do with it?" The Dragon Queen asks.

"Scare it off…kill it if it won't leave, I suppose." Jon sounds distressed at the idea of harming it, Sansa feels equally distressed at the thought herself. Ghost stops growling and starts to sniff at the air as if the wind has suddenly changed directions, and he can smell a new scent.

Sansa moves forward to get a better look at the animal, and its head snaps towards her. Something about its yellow eyes makes Sansa pause. A memory from a lifetime ago flashing before her eyes. She moves further forward, past Jon, towards the wolf.

"Sansa, are you mad?" Jon tries to grab her arm, but she pulls out of his grasp. "What are you doing? You are going to get yourself killed," he snaps at her.

She walks forward slowly, arms partially raised. She kneels before the wolf, ruining her dress in the snow, but she doesn't care. Ghost comes to sit next to her, head tilted to the side curiously. Cautiously Sansa lifts an arm and gently pets the wolf's coat. It merely stares at her for a moment. Then it sits and nuzzles its head into Sansa's face.

Behind Sansa Tyrion curses and The Dragon Queen gasps. "Sansa, whats going on?" Jon questions her, she lets her arm fall and turns to see him standing shocked. Longclaw hanging limply in his hand by his side.

"It's Nymeria," Sansa tells him breathlessly, just as Ghost pounces forward and playfully tackles his litter-mate.

"Nymeria." Jon breathes out, as shocked as Sansa.

"The dire wolf has a name?" The Dragon Queen questions softly.

"Aye," Jon answers her, looking wrecked. "She used to belong to our sister. Arya."

***

Nymeria follows just behind her as Sansa makes her way through the halls of her home. The wolf has barely left her alone since she arrived at Winterfell three days ago. Shadowing her more than Brienne and acting as a fierce protector. The wolf growls at anyone who isn't Bran or Jon. She nearly tore off Lord Baelish's arm when he got too close, it makes it difficult to get his advice when the wolf is so against him. Yet Nymeria is gentle and almost sweet when alone with Sansa, a baffling contrast, but Sansa can't bring herself to care.

Sansa has felt a lot lighter the past couple of days with Nymeria. She thinks it is partially because of having constant protection, even Brienne can't always be by her side. Yet it is more than that. The thought of having a part of her sister close gives her a comfort she hasn't felt in years. The wolf is her one tie to Arya, and it makes Sansa feel more hopeful than ever that her sister is still alive. If a wolf driven away from her family when she was just a pup could survive all the trials of the wild and return, why couldn't Arya?

Jon doesn't share her optimism. She thought after finding Nymeria at the gates they could have spoken, that he would stop being so distant, but he had left so quickly after Nymeria proved no threat, and she has barely seen him since. Now he has called for her to discuss something, and Sansa can't help but feel nervous.

Nymeria whines as they approached Jon's solar, and Sansa reaches out to stroke the creature's ears. She appears as apprehensive as Sansa is. Sansa was surprised the wolf took to her so quickly. She could hear the other howls at night, knew Nymeria must have made a pack of her own, yet she still slept by her side, in her bed for the last three nights.

Sansa knocks and continues to stroke Nymeria's ears as she waits for Jon to answer. He opens the door looking down at her dress of Stark grey and Nymeria by her side. He doesn't greet her, but she follows him inside, closing the door behind them and taking a seat next to him by the fire, Nymeria stretching to lay out by her feet.

"You wanted to see me?" Sansa prompts after a few moments when he says nothing, Jon's staring too intently into the fire, as if lost in his own thoughts.

"Aye," he says, but his voice and eyes are still far away.

Sansa picks a piece of cheese from the small table prepared with some food and wine for their private lunch. She gives it to Nymeria to nibble on. The wolf is surprisingly gentle and well mannered for having spent so long in the wild.

"Jon?" She prompts once more when he doesn't continue.

He shakes his head a little, as though physically shaking off his thoughts before clearing his throat. "Sorry, just thinking about how to say this."

"Say what?"

He doesn't answer her question, "I'm sorry for avoiding you lately, I know we haven't talked much since my return and that I've been distant. Daen-uh…the Queen spoke with me, told me I’ve been to distant. She's actually the one who told me I needed to speak with you."

"Jon?"

He runs his hand through his hair, "I needed some time to think it over, and think of how to tell you…what to say and then Nymeria showed up and that just made things a lot worse-"

"Jon!" She interrupts him, "just tell me whats going on."

"Um well…I spoke to Gendry the other night. That night I arrived."

She furrows her brows, thinking for a moment, "the bastard blacksmith that went with you beyond The Wall?" She asks she had heard of Jon's adventure and his companions. Had met Gendry yet not paid very much attention to the young man, though she had been impressed that he accompanied her brother to catch a wight.

"Aye, he um…" he confirms, struggling with his words, running a hand over his face. "He told me something about um…about…Arya."

"Arya?" Sansa asks in shock. Hope flares up in her chest, this bastard blacksmith knows of Arya. Maybe he knows where she is. Where she has been. Perhaps he has seen her. Or knows her. Sansa has to restrain herself from running from the room to track down the smith and ask him herself. "Has he seen her? Does he know where she is?" She rushes out, frantic. Nymeria picks her head up at the mention of Arya's name, ears twitching as if she is just as desperate as Sansa.

"No Sansa…no," Jon says, his face pained and vulnerable "he knew her. He told me how she died."

Sansa feels her heart sink for a moment, feels the colour drain from her face, her hope squashed. "No." She vehemently denies, "no. She's not dead Jon."

"Sansa," he says heartbreakingly soft, "she's been missing for years." He reaches out to grab one of her hands, his face broken, beseeching her to believe him. "I talked with Gendry he told me she was on her way The Twins, he told me the brotherhood found out she made it there. I spoke with Lord Beric, he told me he sent two of the Brotherhood Without Banners out to The Twins. Arya had run away, they wanted to know if she had made it there, the soldiers at the gate told them she had. She's gone, she died with Catelyn and Robb."

"No…No!" She tells him, "Brienne saw her on the road. With The Hound. She couldn't have died at The Twins." Nymeria whines at the rising voices, looking between the two as if nervous.

"Brienne never met Arya, that girl she saw could have been anyone. The Hound never said he even travelled with Arya."

"No, she told me she was sure it was Arya. That she had called her by her name. Have you asked The Hound about her?" She accuses, Arya's not dead, she can't be dead. The last time Sansa had spoken to her sister, she had been so awful. Arya's not dead. She was missing, of course she was, lying low like Sansa had been to survive, she would make her way back to them.

"Have you?" He retorts sharply, before sighing and softly continuing, "I tried. He told me to fuck off, said she was a dead girl."

"She's not dead. She can't be dead Jon." She refuses to believe it.

Jon looks at Sansa with so much devastation and pity, holding her hand so delicately as though she might break if he makes one wrong move. "Sansa, I know you have always hoped, wished that she was alive. Look, it is not something that I wanted to hear either, and I wish it weren't true. But…you need to accept it, you need to stop waiting for her to return because she won't. She's gone. And I think you should grieve for her now like you did the others. I wish, really, truly, wish that she is coming back. But she isn't Sansa."

She tears her hand from his. "Are you hearing yourself?" She asks him outraged, "you've given up. She loves you so much, and you've given up on her. Think of what you have been saying. A blacksmith? A band of outlaws? How do you know Arya even knew these people? They could be lying, all of them. To gain your favour or make it sound like they helped her and get a reward or to just be cruel. I trust Brienne, and I trust what she saw. My sister is _alive_. If you want to forget all about Arya, then fine believe what you want, but you're not bringing me down with you. Nymeria is here with us. If she survived this long, so did Arya. She's here waiting for Arya to come home."

"Sansa. Just because Nymeria is alive doesn't mean our sister is. One doesn't die with the other. Summer's dead, yet Bran's still here, Lady's dead and you're sitting right in front of me, when I died Ghost was there waiting for me to wake up."

"No, you wrong." She tells him harshly, pulling away when he goes to reach for her hand again. "You're foolish to believe them," she says, rising to leave, "she's not dead." Nymeria follows her to the door, tail between her legs.

"Sansa." Jon pleads, still sitting by the fire.

"No Jon, I don't want to talk about this anymore, Arya's not dead."

"Ok," he says quietly, looking as if he's resigned himself to his fate, and he rises to see her out. "Let me know when you are ready to talk."

"You're foolish to believe them," she repeats harshly as she opens the door and leaves, Nymeria on her tail.

"Sure Sansa." He says as she walks out the door and away from him, sounding as though he doesn't believe her one bit.

***

Sansa finds Bran in the Godswood, looking up at the weirwood tree. She isn't in the mood for company, came here to avoid people. But if she has to have company at least it is Bran. Since becoming the Three-Eyed Raven, he's a lot less judgemental. Perhaps its because he no longer cares, but at least for now, it means he won't bother her.

She sits on the ground, leaning back against the weirwood tree, facing Bran. Stretching her legs out in front of her in a very unladylike manner. Nymeria settles beside her, resting her head in Sansa's lap and nuzzling at her hand until Sansa begins to pet her. Again Sansa marvels how quickly the wolf has settled back in amongst humans, though Sansa has no doubts that she will become the wild, vicious beast in the face of any threat.

"You have spoken to Jon?" Bran asks her, he actually sounds concerned, like a part of the brother she knew is still there with this Three-Eyed Raven he has become.

She sighs, she really didn't want to talk. "He told me Arya's dead, I don't believe him." Bran hums in acknowledgement but doesn't say anything.

"You knew he would tell me?"

"He told me a few days ago what he had learnt about our sister." He replies, expression unreadable. "I guess he found it easier to tell me, I feel less emotional connection now." Sansa wonders if that's true or if her brothers just become a master at hiding it. "I don't know what I think about it yet."

She looks up to him. Her earlier confidence, so adamant that Arya was alive is fading some. "Do you…Do you know if she's dead?" She asks him, warily, not knowing if she's ready for the answer, what she'll do with it.

But the answer she gets isn't what she was expecting. "I honestly don't know." He sounds sad, sounds like her Bran again. "My powers, gifts, as the Three-Eyed Raven, they allow me many things. They allow me to see the past, to know what could happen in the future, to warg into animals, and see the present, though I could do that before. But I don't truly see and know everything, my visions aren't intentional, neither is my skin changing most times. I get an instinct, a feeling, and then suddenly, I'm somewhere else. I know things I don't remember learning and know possible outcomes without really considering them, but I don't control what I learn, it just comes naturally when I need it. I've never had a vision of Arya, I honestly don't know if she's alive or not."

Sansa doesn't know if that makes her feel any better. Though it is sad when she considers it, poor Bran having all that knowledge yet little control. "I'm sorry for everything that happened to you." She tells him quietly, "for everything you lost, I never asked you about it."

"Don't worry. I'm content with this fate. I'm sorry I can't give you the answers you want."

Sansa sighs, "that's alright, I don't even know what I would have done with the answer either way." She leans her head back against the tree, petting Nymeria softly.

A thousand thoughts play over in her mind, Jon's reasoning seems a lot more logical now that she isn't filled with fury. She's desperately clung to the idea of her sister still being alive, out there somewhere. She doesn't know what she would do if Arya really is dead. Sansa is quite content to live her whole life waiting for her little sister's return. If she thinks her poor little sister, so small and fragile, dead with her mother and brother, she might break. She doesn't want to think about what the Frey's may have done to her body. Though perhaps that is better then what is to come, maybe its a good thing Arya has yet to return to them with the army of the dead so close.

"Do you think we'll survive this war?" She asks her little brother, not the Raven he has become.

"I hope so Sansa," he tells her sadly, "I really hope so."

***

Sansa wakes up groggily to the pale light of dawn, she looks around, cold and confused to what has woken her, to find Nymeria gone. She yawns stretching, thinking the wolf had gotten too warm and moved to the cold floor. "Nymeria?" She calls, turning on her side to look around the room, the wolf isn’t there.

"Nymeria," Sansa calls softly again, but the wolf doesn't show herself. She pulls herself up out of bed to look for her. Pulling a robe over her winter nightdress and walking into her solar. The door to the hallway is open, and warily Sansa approaches it, not remembering opening it. She calls out again, "Nymeria?"

She looks down the hallway, but the wolf is nowhere to be found. Sansa starts to worry, Nymeria hasn't left her alone since her arrival, where has the wolf gone? She walks down to the end of the hall and then rounds the corner to the next, passing doors to the other large chambers as she continues her search.

"Sansa?" She looks behind her to see Jon standing in his doorway. He's looking at her in confusion, shirtless, and clearly just having woken up "are you ok?"

"Ummm…yes…Just Nymeria is missing, my door was open." She tells him, their argument forgotten in her worry. She turns to him as she talks. She hadn't realised that she had wandered so far from her own room.

"That's…strange. Ghost usually sleeps in here, but he's gone too." He tells her, looking back into his room as if to confirm the animal is actually gone, "He's managed to open the door before I just didn't think anything of it."

"Nymeria hasn't left my side for days. I'm worried something happened to her", Sansa tells him, looking down the hallway worriedly again. "You don't think she's run off, do you?"

"Maybe she's just around the castle somewhere, let me get dressed, and I'll help you look for her." He offers, turning to head back into his solar.

Sansa returns to her room and dresses with haste. Putting on the first dress she can find, that doesn't require the assistance of a maid. And pulling on her furs to keep her warm. She meets Jon back at his room where he's waiting for her, dressed and with Longclaw sheathed at his side.

They walk through the castle, searching for the wolves as the sun rises but failing to find them. "I understand one of them going missing, but both? Nymeria barely leaves you alone, and even Ghost hasn't been going far lately, not with the dead so near. He's been sleeping by my side since my return. Neither of them have left Winterfell in days."

"I don't get it, where could they have gone?" Sansa asks as they walk out into the yard, the sun is higher in the sky now as people begin to wake fully and go about their morning routines. "They can't just disappear."

Jon looks towards the gates, worry clouding his expression, and Sansa grows apprehensive. "You don't think they went out, do you? Beyond the gates to the woods? Should we ask the guards?"

"I suppose there's no other explanation." She tells him, worry and unease settling uncomfortably in her stomach. They approach the guardsmen on watch, who look concerned to see both Stark's coming to talk with them. Jon's halfway through the question when he's interrupted.

Two familiar howls sound out, far away but carrying eerily in the morning quiet. They sound off, not the howling of a hunt but rather sad, almost mournful. There is no doubt in Sansa's mind that the howls belong to their two missing wolves.

"That's definitely Ghost," Jon tells her, the guards look at him confused, but he dismisses them with a wave.

Sansa looks to Jon, "I have a bad feeling," she tells him.

"Aye, me too." He tells her, looking out the gates to the woods just as another lone howl sounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok chapter four, I feel like this one isn't as exciting but necessary to the story.  
> Also please don't hate me but yes I did change Bran's Three-eyed raven powers a bit, so like its not voluntary, and he doesn't know everything already, because that honestly makes something like this really had to write as it just kills all the suspense and establishes loop holes because Bran could just tell everyone what to do, and in the show they just kind of forget about it and rarely bring it up  
> Anyways hope you enjoyed, chapter five should be up soon because I've already started on it  
> Please let me know what you think :)


	5. Chapter Five - Arya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I'm back,   
> I know its been a while, like a few months but I feel I owe you an explanation as to why I was gone so long so lets talk  
> At first I only intended to take like a few weeks break because of doing exams and then being burnt out from finishing said exams so I took a little break from writing.  
> Then in true 2020 fashion, my life became hell. I actually recently replied to a comment and said this happened about a month ago but its now September so this actually happen over 2 months ago and I just haven't really noticed the world still moving around me.  
> I had a very close family member who was killed, a random act of violence kind of situation, just very sudden wrong place wrong time kind of situation, so of course this really hit hard, they were very young so it wasn't expected any way that they would pass so soon.  
> Its been really hard on me and my family and between preparing for and attending the funeral and then just grieving I haven't been incredibly motivated to write lately and I've just been struggling a bit.  
> I'm not looking or writing this for sympathy or anything, I just thought you all deserved an explanation as to why I hadn't updated in so long, I don't want to disappoint anyone and I honestly hadn't even noticed how much time had passed until I looked back, I've just kind of been stuck in this little bubble.  
> I'm sorry if this isn't up to my usual standard, I honestly don't know if it is or not but I hope you enjoy it regardless.  
> Anyways thank you so much to those who have still been reading and supporting my work despite how long I've taken to update, honestly you guys are amazing xx

**Arya**

Arya is tired, cold, and restless.

She has barely allowed herself an hour's sleep each night. Paranoid another assassin will slit her throat while she's unaware. She's been falling asleep atop her horse and jerking herself awake ten minutes later, sometimes she has wolf dreams in the short periods, of running and hunting, but often she doesn't dream at all.

The snow and wind have been relentless. Arya misses the outer walls of Winterfell that keep the harsh wind at bay. She is only a day's ride away now. Arya would have been there sooner if not for her injuries and the weather. It has taken her three days to ride to where she is, something that should have only taken a day at most, and the sun is on the decline, soon night will fall again. Her horse stops each time she falls asleep, and she can't ride the mare too fast for fear of falling off with her weak limbs.

It's almost always snowing. Arya has been leaning forward on her horse while riding and sleeping next to the mare to stay warm. Her fur pelt is doing little for her. Though Arya knows her shivers are from something far more severe than the weather.

Arya knows she has a fever, her skin is slick with sweat, yet she's colder than she's ever been. Her shivers are violent, and it takes a considerable effort to stay on her horse. The bigger problem will come when she stops shivering completely. At first, she thought it poison. In her haste to get away from the clearing, she had forgotten to check the assassin's arrows and blades. Nothing coated the knives she had taken, but that didn't mean the arrows hadn't been. Soon she realised it was much worse.

Her wounds are infected. Most likely because she passed out for an undetermined amount of time before she could stitch them closed, her shoulder is the worst of them all. Yellow pus oozing out from between her stitches, the skin surrounding the wound angry and red. Lifting the arm causes an intense amount of pain and her to see stars in her vision.

She needs to drain the pus, resew the wound, get something for the pain, and disinfect the wound again. She doesn't have the supplies or time to do it herself. Her only hope is to make it to Winterfell. She needs a maester. More importantly, she needs the protection of Winterfell's walls.

Her eyes have been growing heavy. She's exhausted and needs to sleep. Her head bobs a few times as she struggles to stay awake, fighting her fatigue before eventually giving up and resting her head on the mare's neck.

***

She's running again, following the scent, she's running alone. She has left her pack at the tree line, out of sight from the humans. They'll obey her, and they will wait for her there. Its nighttime and the pack needs sleep anyway. She can keep going for now.

She's no longer running through thick trees or leaping over fallen branches. She's running through the snow towards tall, dark walls that stir memories inside her mind from her time as a pup. The girl's scent is faint here, near none existent, but her kin's scent is strong. As is the smell of something familiar that Nymeria remembers from her time with her litter-mates.

She stops at the gates to cries of alarm. Two unfamiliar men block her path inside. They draw long objects from their sides as another two men approach with curved objects pointing little sticks at her, weapons she realises. She tries growling at them to move, but they disobey her and only hold their weapons higher. She snaps her teeth, showing off her own weapons, but that doesn't work either.

A blur of fur passes the men and stops in front of her, pacing back and forth and growling softly. He is a wolf, like her, not like their smaller cousins in her pack. She tries to bark for him to move too, but he growls right back at her. She sniffs at the air, realising this strange yet familiar scent from earlier, the one from her days as a young pup.

More humans come towards her. One is being pushed in a strange seat with wheels attached. They stop behind the others, one dark-haired man drawing his weapon, she growls at him, but he doesn't listen to her either. The unfamiliar men move back, lowering their weapons, listening to the dark-haired one with his sword drawn.

She can feel the girl in the back of her mind, her human. She feels cold yet surprised and almost excited. One of the other humans move closer, and Nymeria snaps her head towards her.

This one is a female. She smells of that scent Nymeria has been looking for, of that scent that drew her here. Familiar yet also a stranger. The female moves closer, raising her arms before kneeling in front of Nymeria. Nymeria is unsure what to do. The female doesn't look as though she wants to attack. She smells like that scent, her hair looks familiar, but Nymeria does not know her. The female raises a hand and begins to stroke Nymeria's fur.

Nymeria feels her human pushing at the back of her brain like she's trying to take control, but Nymeria doesn't want her to. They could be in danger. The girl beats against that part of her brain. She feels frustrated before giving up and pushing two words through their bond.

"Family," the girl tells her through their bond, "protect."

So Nymeria listens to the girl, softens her stance, and sits down before pushing her face into the female's neck. Breathing in that scent, she's been following in and finally recognises what it is, the smell of family, of pack.

***

Arya snaps awake on her horse, almost falling out her saddle as she jerks up so suddenly. "Sansa," she says aloud in disbelief.

The last time Arya saw her sister, it was at their father's execution. She honestly doesn't know what to think of her. Sansa married a Lannister. She had been so happy to marry Joeffy before everything fell apart. Yet there she was, recognising Nymeria when even Jon didn't. Dressed in Stark grey and hair styled the Northern way. And Bran was there too. Sitting in a chair with wheels, but alive, which she hadn't even thought was a possibility. And Jon too…Jon her favourite brother, the one who's name had made her turn and head North instead of South.

They are alive. Alive and unharmed, at least not from what Arya could see through Nymeria's eyes. Nymeria is there with them. They will be safe until she gets there. She has never been so grateful to her dire wolf, there looking after her family.

She tightens her grip on her mares reigns, sitting straighter in the saddle and urges the horse forward again, setting a faster pace then she has previously dared. She needs to make it to Winterfell soon.

***

She has to stop again as night falls, she can barely see five feet ahead of her, and Arya risks getting lost if she continues to ride through the night. She begins to bed down, not daring to risk a fire but shuffling as close to her mare as she can for warmth.

A twig snaps nearby, and she swings her legs out to propel herself into a standing position, Needle already out and held in front of her defensively. No more sound hints to her attacker's location and she slowly turns around, still crouched low and eyes darting madly to each bush and tree that may be able to conceal a body. After five turns, she is almost going mad with the anxiety, panting heavily and still turning slowly to ensure no one will sneak up on her.

Another twig snaps behind her, and she jumps, turning around, Needle prepared to slash through her assassin. A deer's head snaps up from a bush at her movement, right where she had heard the snapping of twigs. It holds her gaze for a few seconds before leaping away further in the woods.

Arya lowers her sword slowly, still panting heavily and looking around madly. Her arms go slack, and Needle drops to the floor. She soon follows, the snow soaks through her breaches', yet she cannot bring herself to care. She is sure she's losing her mind. She has been deprived of human interaction for days unless she counts her assassination attempt, which she doesn't. And the paranoia and sleep deprivation is catching up to her, along with her infected wounds.

She certainly can't sleep now, let alone lay still for hours till dawn. She's strung too highly. Arya packs away her supplies and mounts the mare again. She'll ride through the night. If she follows the path in the snow, she shouldn't get too lost.

"I need to get to Winterfell," She says aloud to herself, needing to hear her voice.

The riding is challenging. Arya struggles to stay up on her horse, and its slow going because of the pace she sets. After two hours, she's made little progress but is still more than she would have made lying down for the night. And at least its warmer sitting on the mare than it is lying in the snow. She has gone into a trance-like state. She is focusing on the snow in front of her as she urges the mare forward.

A voice startles her out of her mind, "You have disappointed me." The voice is familiar, male, but she can't place it. She twists in her saddle, unsheathing Needle and turning to find the source of the voice. She sees no one.

"You dare call yourself a Stark." Another disembodied voice spits at her, this time female, and she knows it this time.

"Mother?" She calls anxiously, though she knows her mother is dead. She remains on her guard. This is a trick, the faceless men trying to unsettle her. "Show yourself." She calls more sternly, trying to keep her voice from shaking and failing.

"You should have died with us." Robb's voice this time, but Arya can't see any of them.

"You are not worthy to carry the Stark name," the first voice says again. She spins back around in her saddle and finds her father standing before her horse, looking pale and angry. It has been so long since she has seen him that she almost forgot what he sounded like at all.

She feels like she might cry but quickly slams down her walls and closes her face off. This is a trick. She reaches over her mare's neck, prepared to rip the face off the assassin torturing her, but her hand passes through her father as if he is made of air.

Her mother and brother appear beside him, out of nowhere, her stomach drops. There is no assassin, just her mind working against her. Its the infection, the sleep deprivation, the paranoia, probably a mix of all three.

She urges the mare forward, hoping the hallucinations will disperse, but they step to the side and follow her as the horse walks. They are taking turns spewing their nasty words and hateful comments.

"Disappointment!"

"You abandoned your family!"

"They are not real." Arya says to herself, "its the infection. They are not real. Your mind is playing tricks, hallucinations."

"Coward!"

"You are no Stark, just a scared little girl."

Arya squeezes her eyes shut tightly, "They are not real. They are not here. They are long dead. There's nothing you could have done to save them, its not your fault."

"Traitor."

"You just ran away, left us! It's all your fault!"

She breaths deeply, in and out, in and out. "You are not real! You are not real!" She whispers to herself, repeating it over and over as they continue their verbal abuse.

"You didn't save us. You left us to die."

"Shut up!" She yells back at them, finally snapping. The mare stops walking, unfazed, Arya's whole body shakes. "Just shut up. Leave me alone."

"Like you left us alone!" Her father replies, rounding the mare until he's directly in front of Arya. He locks his gaze onto hers, and she breaks a little at the disappointment and anger in them, her own eyes swimming as she refuses to let her tears fall.

"I didn't want to leave you," she sobs to him, her body convulses with the force of her cries, a few tears escape anyway. "But, I had to."

"Had to?" Her mother spits back, "you could have helped us. You didn't have to run like a coward. But that is what you did. You abandoned your family to save yourself."

"I had to survive. I wouldn't have if I left you, I wanted to help, but you were already doomed, I had to leave. Robb wanted me to leave."

"Wanted you to leave?" Her brother bites back at her, "I wanted you to help!"

"I had to survive. I had to." She cries, now more hysterical. She cannot recall the last time her emotions were so out of control.

"What you had to do was help us!" Her father shouts, "but instead, you left."

"I had to!" She shouts back at them, her vision is becoming blurry at the edges, and she's swaying in the saddle. "I had to abandon my family to survive."

Her body is shaking, convulsing so violently that she falls from the saddle. She lands on her side in the snow, shivering and sobbing incoherently about how sorry she is to them.

Her father kneels by her head and looks down at her, disappointment shown in every line of his face. "Maybe you weren't supposed to survive." He says to her, quietly but not softly, "maybe you shouldn't have." Before he stands, turns around and walks off, her brother and mother following him, abandoning her in the snow, just like she left them.

She closes her eyes and gives herself freely to the darkness and her wolf waiting on the other side.

***

When Arya wakes again, she is disoriented, unsure of the day or time. Her horse is gone, and with the beast are Arya's supplies. All she has now is Needle at her side and several other smaller concealed blades. Her shoulder aches, burns, and she's landed on her side wrong, her leg stiff with the angle but not injured. She's both too hot and too cold, she wonders vaguely if this is what it feels like to die.

She had another wolf dream, of Sansa, Bran, and Nymeria in the Godswood. Her family thought her dead. They all had given up hope, all but Sansa. The sister she had hated so much, who she still feels betrayed by but had missed so often. Sansa was now the only one who had any faith in her, the only one who didn't believe her dead, and even she sounded as though she was losing hope.

Jon thought her dead, Sansa had said so, he had given up on her. Arya couldn't help but feel a bit betrayed. Even though she knew she would believe the same in his position, even though she had thought them all dead before returning to Westeros.

Nymeria had been content for the first time in a long while. Arya could feel it. The wolf had nuzzled at Sansa and cuddled up to her as she had once done with Arya. Arya felt something oddly close to jealousy, bubbling up uncomfortably inside her before she squashed it back down into the numbness. She hadn't felt jealous in far too long, but suppressing her emotions was second nature now. She didn't know how to stop.

Perhaps her hallucinations were right. Maybe she isn't a Stark anymore. She should have just continued with her list, the army of the dead be damned. Arya Stark had died a long time ago, with her father's execution, with the loss of a blacksmith, with her mother and brother's death. Now she was just a stranger wearing the girl's skin.

She can feel Nymeria somewhere in the back of her head, watching and vaguely wonders if she can warg into the wolf, then can the wolf warg into her.

Maybe she was dying, this intense amount of pain, the violent shivering that has been slowing with each passing moment. The hallucinations were right. She should have died a long time ago, died along with Arya Stark instead of fighting so hard only to become this shell. She will lay here until her body freezes over, or she dies of starvation, and the world would be better for it.

Nymeria growls in the back of her head, and again Arya wonders how she is there. The wolf doesn't usually hang around in her head after her dreams. Perhaps the wolf would be better off without her too. She has Sansa now, protection, a family. Maybe she doesn't need this reminder of who Arya was.

Again Nymeria growls, louder this time, before pushing a word through their bond to Arya. Something Arya didn't think possible.

"Family," the wolf growls.

Family. That is what Arya had told her earlier. Arya was family, and Nymeria still wanted her as such, even if she had changed, moulded into something deadly and unforgiving.

With a great effort, Arya rolls over, grunting at the pain that flares through her entire body in protest. She pushed herself up on her arms, putting as little weight on her left as possible. Stars dance in her vision, but she pushes past them until she's standing again, staggering to her feet.

Her horse is still gone, but she has her weapons. It is still dark, and her fingers are still pale and fleshy despite having no gloves, so she only passed out for a couple of hours. She stumbles the first few steps but quickly gets her feet back under her and makes the slow, agonising walk to Winterfell.

***

Its early morning, the sky still dark with pre-dawn. Arya is near clear of the woods. Winter town still dark but able to be seen in the distance. Arya sighs in relief. She should hopefully make it to Winterfell just before nightfall on foot.

Relief pours off Arya in waves, exhaustion draining off of her. She will be there soon, reuniting with her family. She is so close to safety. She can do this. She can walk in with her head held high, covered in blood, and demand to see the King in the North, commanding that she is Arya Stark of Winterfell, and she has returned home.

There's a sound from the trees behind her, someone nocking an arrow, so subtle, so quiet that if Arya hadn't been on such high alert, she doubts she would have heard it. She drops to the floor as soon as she hears the arrow letting loose.

Her shoulder collides painfully with the snow, unprepared for the sudden movement, pain flares across her back, up her neck, and down her arm. It stuns her momentarily, spots dancing in her vision again as she tries to get her bearings.

The arrow has embedded itself in the tree in front of her, where she was standing mere moments ago. She rolls onto her back, her arm protesting as she brings it with her. She hears footsteps but can't make out her attackers in her swaying vision, only dark figures, doubling then returning to a single person before doubling once more.

"Not today," she whispers, pushing herself to her feet despite her body's protests. If she lays down any longer, she will not be getting back up.

She draws Needle and faces the figures as her vision finally clears. There are three of them, undoubtedly an unfair fight considering her condition, and they are Faceless men. Two are female, with modest, unnoticeable features. Young, making it easier to hide in plain sight. The middle one is male, but he is also unmemorable, older, but not significantly. This won't help her. She doubts they are their real faces.

Arya grips her sword tighter. The odds are bad, incredibly bad. Yet if she is going to go down, she will go down fighting. She hears howling in the distance but tunes it out. Nothing beyond this clearing matters.

"Fear cuts deeper than swords." She whispers under her breath to herself, before lunging.

She aims for the girl on her left, but the assassin easily evades. Arya is still quick despite infected wounds and a fever, but illness has slowed her enough for a Faceless man to best her.

"Fear cuts deeper than swords." She says again.

She dodges the girl's attack only barely. The three assassins begin to surround her. This time she aims for the male and aims high. She lands her mark, slicing across the man's face and slashing one of his eyes, effectively blinding him with his blood but not before he cuts into her exposed side.

"Fear cuts deeper than swords." She says it louder this time, just loud enough for her assassin to catch, and they shoot her mocking glares.

The wound isn't deep. It won't kill Arya, not yet anyway. As the male goes down, screaming in pain, she turns to the other two. They are circling her, have Arya effectively surrounded, and begin to trade stabs and slashes with her. Arya panics, defending herself as best she can but failing to protect her front and back whist so dizzy and weak.

"Fear cuts deeper than swords." She's shouting it this time. As though her life depends on the saying. As though somehow her former mentor can help her from beyond the grave.

The girls get in their fair number of nicks and near misses, Arya dodging their blades as best she can before they get the upper hand. One of the girls twirls behind Arya and slices across her lower back. It's not the deepest wound, but its deep enough for Arya to go down with a cry, falling to her knees.

Her blood is rushing in her ears as she watches the assassin in front of her grin maniacally, preparing herself for the final killing blow. She hears the howling again, closer this time. And perhaps its because her fever is driving her mad. Or maybe its because something has finally snapped inside her already fragile mind, but she decides to howl back. Long and loud and carrying all her pain.

She quickly realises her mistake when wolves begin to appear at the clearing's edge, as though rising out of thin air and giving her two reaming assassins pause.

The wolves begin to growl and snap their teeth together, and Arya tries to make herself appear smaller, less threatening, hoping they'll focus their attention on her attackers so she can flee.

The two assassins glance at one another nervously, and then to their still alive companion, whimpering on the floor but unharmed apart from his bloodied left eye and slashed face, before turning to face the wolves, weapons raised.

A first wolf lunges forward, taking one of the girls by surprise, ripping out her throat before she can retaliate, the blood sprays onto Arya's face and into her open, panting mouth. The taste is coppery and overpowering and causing Arya to gag.

The second girl slashes to her side, attacking one of the beasts. Arya's head is pounding, blood rushing, but she can sense something is off. Despite the snarling and fighting, the clearing is too quiet, too quiet, and missing something.

The male assassin cries have stopped. Arya turns her head just in time to see him stagger to his feet, wiping the blood out of his right eye so that he can focus on Arya. Arya stumbles to her feet too, bringing Needle with her, ignoring her wounds, and pushing aside her pain in favour of staying alive a few more minutes.

He raises his sword and slashes at Arya. He's slightly off-balance either due to the blood loss or loss of vision. She dodges but only barely, the blade cutting open her jerkin but leaving the skin beneath unmarked.

Arya retaliates with a slash to his shoulder, the hit lands but with less force than intended doing barely any damage. Arya staggers, using all her energy to keep her upright and fighting.

Her attacker is relentless, cutting, and slashing and landing blow after blow. Few meet their marks, but the ones that do sting, and despite his missing eye, quickly, he gains the upper hand. The girl behind her drops, finally mauled by one of the wolves, managing to take down two of the beasts with her.

The male assassin attacks again, aiming to sever the artery in her leg. Arya jerks back, but it causes her to stagger and lose her footing, falling back and looking up at her attacker as he prepares a killing blow.

Finally, she allows herself to feel fear. She will die here, in these woods. So close yet so far from home. She is surrounded by beasts who will tear apart her body afterward. Her only solace is that her assassin will follow soon after, the wolves may be holding back now for fear of getting caught in the crossfire of their fight, but they won't hold back when she is dead. He's as dead as she is.

He opens his mouth, no doubt to say something mocking, but Arya never gets to hear it. A blur of fur launches itself at her attacker. It is so sudden that it takes Arya several seconds to register what has happened and turn to see the aftermath.

A wolf has the male by the throat, savagely shaking him back and forth, tearing throw muscles and nerves and arteries. When the wolf finally drops him, its fur is stained red around its muzzle, and the assassin's head is barely still attached to his body.

When the wolf turns to her is when Arya finally registers its size. Her yellow eyes staring back at Arya.

"Nymeria," Arya chokes out, disbelief flooding over her, quickly followed by a wave of relief. Arya sags, relaxing minimally.

Another dire wolf comes to stand beside her, licking at her face reassuringly. Licking away, some of the blood stuck there. Ghost, Arya thinks to herself incredulously. Arya mutters her wolf's name once more before exhaustion, blood loss, and infection send her crashing back down into the snow.

The last thing she hears is Nymeria's mournful howl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I put a note at the top of this chapter explaining why I took so long to update, if you didn't read that and want to know you can go read it, if you don't care thats cool too.  
> I'm sorry if this isn't up to my usual standard, I honestly don't know if it is or not but I hope you enjoyed it regardless.  
> I'm planning to have reunions next chapter, at least some of them.  
> I am going to try an update regularly, hopefully once a week and I want to post the next chapter a bit early to make up for this one being literal months late but please be patient with me.  
> Other than that I hope you enjoyed it and I love to hear your feedback.  
> Thank you for all the comments and kudos xx

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading, please let me know what you think,  
> I would love to hear your feedback :)


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